New Frontier

by Peter David

  Selar seemed inclined to reply to that, but clearly she changed her mind. “We have gotten off the subject,” she said, and once again seemed intensely interested in looking anywhere but at Soleta. “I have formally requested Succor. Do you understand the parameters of such a petition?”

  “I believe I do,” Soleta said slowly. “You are asking that I oblige myself to help you with some matter without knowing the nature of it, or what that obligation binds me to. It gives me no option to state that the request is beyond my ability to help you. Gives me no opportunity simply to refuse, for whatever reason. It is generally an application made by a fairly wretched and frightened individual who feels that she has no one on whom she can count.”

  “I would dispute the accuracy of the last statement . . .”

  “Would you?” asked Soleta with such sudden intensity that it virtually forced Selar to look directly at her. “Would you really?”

  “I . . .” Her Vulcan discipline was most impressive. Her chin ever-so-slightly outthrust, she said, “Since I am presently in the process of asking you for Succor, it would not be appropriate for me to engage in a dispute over your opinions. Believe what you wish. But I would appreciate an answer to the question.”

  “The answer is no.”

  Soleta turned on her heel and headed for the door. She was almost there when Selar halted her with a word . . .

  “Please.”

  There was no more emotion, no more inflection in the one word than there had been in any of the words preceding it. And yet Soleta was sure that she could hear the desperation in Selar’s voice. She turned back to the doctor and said flatly, the words in something of a rush, “I hereby, of my own free will, grant you Succor. In what way may I be of service.”

  Selar took a step forward and said, “Mind-meld with me.”

  “What?”

  “I am concerned over my frame of mind. My concern is that my mental faculties are beginning to erode. I have been experiencing . . . feelings. Sensations. Confusions which can only be deemed inappropriate in light of my training and experience.”

  Slowly, Soleta sank into a chair, not taking her eyes off Selar, “You want me to mind-meld with you.”

  Selar paced the room, speaking in a clinically detached manner that made her feel far more comfortable than acknowledging the emotional turmoil she was straining to keep at bay. “I believe that I may be suffering the earliest stages of Bendii Syndrome, causing the disintegration of my self-control.”

  “If that is what you believe, then certainly there must be medical tests . . .”

  But Selar shook her head. “Bendii Syndrome, at this point, would not be detectable through standard medical technologies. There are physical symptoms, yes, changes in certain waves patterns. But these are ascribable to a variety of possible ailments. It could also be Hibbs Disease, or Telemioistis . . . it could even be Pon farr, although that is an impossibility.”

  “Impossible . . . why? Timing is wrong?”

  Selar suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Yes.”

  “When was the last—?”

  “It cannot be, believe me,” Selar told her in no uncertain terms. Clearly considering the subject closed, she continued briskly, “In this situation, diagnosis via mind-meld would be the accepted and appropriate procedure to follow on Vulcan. There are doctors, psi-meds, who specialize in the technique.”

  “But we’re not on Vulcan, and I’m not a doctor,” Soleta reminded her. “This is not a situation with which I am comfortable.”

  “I fully understand that. However, it would not be required that you have any medical training. During the mind-meld, I will be able to use your ’outside’ perspective as if it were a diagnostic tool. Were I not a doctor myself, and were I not thoroughly trained in such procedures, it would be impossible. As it stands, it is more cumbersome and inefficient than simply to have a psi-med conduct the process. But I am willing to make do.”

  A long moment went by, during which Soleta said nothing. Selar was no fool; Soleta’s hesitation was evident. But she was not about to back off. “You have granted me Succor,” she reminded her, as if the reminder were necessary. “You cannot refuse.”

  “True. However,” and Soleta stood, squaring her shoulders. She seemed even more uncomfortable now than Selar had moments before, and she did not have the self-discipline or control to cover it as skillfully as Dr. Selar.” . . . however, I am within my rights to request that you release me from my promise. I do so now.”

  “I will not.”

  “You would force me to mind-meld with you?” Soleta made absolutely no effort to hide her surprise. “That is contrary to . . .” She couldn’t even begin to articulate it. Mind-meld was a personal, private matter. To force someone to perform it upon you, or thrust your own mind into another . . . it was virtually unthinkable.

  “Lieutenant, I understand your hesitation,” Selar began.

  “No, I do not think you do.”

  “We barely know one another, and you feel pressured,” Selar began. “Such a mind-meld will require you to probe more deeply than one normally would. The sort of meld that is either performed between intimates, or by extremely well trained psi-meds who are capable of such private intrusions while still shielding the—”

  But Soleta waved her off impatiently. “It’s not about that. Not about that at all.”

  At this, Selar was bit surprised. “Well, then . . . perhaps you wish to explain it to me.”

  “I do not. Now release me from my promise.”

  “No.”

  The two women stared at each other, each unyielding in their resolve. It was Soleta who broke first. She looked away from Selar, and in a voice so soft that even Selar almost missed it, she murmured, “It is for your own good.”

  “My own good? Lieutenant, I need your help. That is where my ’own good’ lies.”

  “You do not want my help.”

  “I believe I know what I want and—”

  “You do not want my help!”

  The outburst was so unexpected, so uncharacteristic, so un-Vulcan, that—had Selar been human—she would have gaped in undisguised astonishment. As it was she could barely contain her incredulity. Soleta looked as if someone had ripped out a piece of her soul. She was fighting to regain her composure and was only partly successful. Selar, in all her years, had never encountered a Vulcan whose emotionality was so close to the surface. All she knew was that she was beginning to feel less like a supplicant and more like a tormentor.

  “I release you,” she said slowly.

  Soleta let out an unsteady sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said.

  Clearly, now, she wanted to leave. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and Selar as she possibly could. But the reasons for her outburst, and Selar’s open curiosity, were impossible to ignore. She could not pretend that it had not happened, and—despite the size of the Excalibur—it was, in the grand scheme of things, a small place to live when there was someone whose presence was going to make you uncomfortable. Particularly when it was someone such as the ship’s CMO; not exactly the type of person one could hope never to have any interaction with.

  Soleta leaned against the wall, her palms flat against it, as if requiring the support of it. She weighed all the possibilities, and came to what she realized was the only logical decision. Still, she had to protect herself. “If I tell you something relating to my medical history . . . will you treat it under the realm of doctor/patient confidentiality.”

  “Does it pose a threat to the health or safety of the crew of the Excalibur?”

  The edges of Soleta’s mouth, ever so slightly, turned upward. “No. No, not at all.”

  “Very well.”

  She took a deep breath. “I am . . . impure,” she said. “You would not want me in your mind.”

  “How do you mean ’impure’? I do not understand.”

  “I am not . . . full Vulcan.”

  Selar blinked, the only outward indication of her
surprise. “Your records do not indicate that.” She paused, considered the information. “It is an unexpected revelation, but it is hardly cataclysmic. Your attitude, your demeanor, indicates you consider your background to be . . . shameful in some manner. Some of the greatest Vulcans in history do not have ’pure’ parentage.”

  “I am aware of that. I am personally acquainted with Ambassador Spock.”

  “Personally.” Selar was impressed, and made no effort to keep it out of her voice, “May I inquire as to the circumstances?”

  “We were in prison together.”

  Selar found this curious, to say the least, but she decided that it was probably preferable not to investigate the background of that statement. Clearly there were greater problems to be dealt with. Selar was all too aware that bedside manner was not her strong suit. And her experiences since the death of her mate, Voltak, had done nothing to soften her disposition. She knew that she had become even more distant and remote than her training would require, but she had not cared overmuch. Truthfully, since Voltak had died those two long years ago, she had not cared about anything. Nonetheless it was clear that Selar had to put aside her own concerns and deal with those of Soleta.

  She placed a hand on Soleta’s shoulder. Soleta looked at it as if it were an alien artifact. “Neck pinch?” she asked.

  “I am endeavoring to be of comfort,” Selar said formally.

  “Nice try.” The words had a tint of humor to them, but Soleta did not say them in an amused manner.

  Slowly Selar removed her hand from Soleta’s shoulder. Then she straightened her uniform jacket and said, “I do not recall your service record indicating any mixed breeding. Although I will respect the bond of doctor/patient confidentiality, falsifying your record is frowned upon. In some instances, it could even result in court-martial in the unlikely event your parentage included a hostile race such as . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she saw Soleta’s expression, anticipating the word. Selar barely dared speak it. “Romulan?” she whispered.

  Soleta nodded.

  “You . . . lied about one of your parents being Romulan?”

  But at that Soleta shook her head. Slowly she sank back down into the couch.

  “My mother was Vulcan,” she said softly. “I thought my father was as well. They were colonists . . . scientific researchers. Several times, in the throes of Ponfarr, they had endeavored to conceive a child, but each time the pregnancy had resulted in miscarriage. It was a tragic circumstance for them, but they dealt with it with typical Vulcan stoicism. Besides, they had their work to keep them occupied.

  “And then there came a day when my mother was on a solo exploration, my father occupied with something else. To her surprise, she came upon a downed ship, a small, one-man vessel. Deciding that there might be someone in need of rescue, she investigated. She found someone. He was a Romulan, injured from the crash. He said he was a deserter.”

  “A deserter?”

  “So he claimed. He begged my mother not to inform anyone of his presence. His concern was that the Federation would turn him back over to the Romulan government . . . or else put him in prison. She informed him that she could not make that promise. It would have been logical for her to lie, but my mother could not bring herself to do so. He was very angry with her, tried to stop her. She fought him and then she . . .” Soleta lowered her voice. “She learned the true nature of his background. He was not a deserter. He was an escaped criminal. A violent, amoral individual, and he . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. But there was no need to finish the sentence.

  Selar said nothing. She did not trust herself to be able to speak without emotion.

  “When my mother returned home, she was already pregnant,” said Soleta. “She contemplated having an abortion . . . and rejected it. It was not a logical decision.”

  “Not logical.” Selar, who prized logic no less than any Vulcan, couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. “Had she aborted the pregnancy, you would not be here.”

  “True enough. But considering the circumstances of my conception . . . the nature of my sire . . . making certain that I was not born would have been the logical choice. But my mother and . . . the man I thought of as my father . . . they felt it . . . illogical . . . to dismiss my existence simply because of who my true father was. They were willing to take the chance that I would not be some sort of violent criminal. That their care, their training, their guidance, would be more than enough to overcome whatever unfortunate tendencies my genetic makeup might carry with it. It was a foolish gamble, but one they were willing to make. Perhaps they were not thinking clearly because of their frustrated encounters with Ponfarr. Or perhaps they were too . . . disoriented . . . by the recent events to come to a more sensible decision. Whatever the reason, they chose to let the pregnancy proceed. This time, she did not miscarry. There is a great irony in that, I suppose.”

  “And you did not know the nature of your true origins?”

  “No. No, I was raised in the belief that I was a full Vulcan. Neither my father nor my mother told me the truth. They saw no point in it. They felt it was information that I did not need to possess. I was, after all, my mother’s daughter, and my father could not have been more devoted to me had he been my genetic parent. So you see, Doctor, there was no attempt at deception on my part. When I enrolled in Starfleet Academy, the information I provided Star-fleet was correct and true, to the best of my knowledge. You should have seen me back then, Doctor. I was as pure Vulcan as anyone could ask. Cool. Unflappable. My training was thorough, my mindset absolutely ideal. I spoke in the formal English dialect favored by our people. You would never have known who my true father was. How could you? I never knew.”

  “What happened to him? After he . . . after the incident with your mother, was he caught? Returned to the Romulans?”

  It took an effort for Soleta to get the words out. “When my mother first returned to the colony city . . . after her violent encounter . . . my father sought out the Romulan who had abused her. But he had disappeared—repaired his ship sufficiently to escape. He eluded capture.”

  “And he was never found?”

  “Oh . . . he was found . . .” And Soleta laughed. It was a most unusual sound, and it startled Selar profoundly. She had never heard a Vulcan laugh. “The fates, if such there be, do like their little pranks. He was caught many years after the ’incident,’ as you call it. He had built up quite a reputation for himself; had a very impressive smuggling operation set up. A Starfleet vessel, the Aldrin, put an end to his illegal activities. And there was a junior-grade science officer aboard that vessel by the name of Soleta. She had heard about Romulans, you see, but had never had the opportunity to see one up close. She considered them to be of scientific interest, what with their being an offshoot of the Vulcan race. Her scientific curiosity drove her to walk past the brig, to observe him, to approach him and begin to ask him questions.

  “And he noticed something. Something she had in her hair. A family heirloom which her mother had always worn, but had passed on to her daughter when Soleta went off to the Academy.”

  Selar realized immediately, saw it glinting in Soleta’s hair. “The IDIC.”

  “Yes.” Soleta tapped the IDIC pin she customarily wore in her hair. “Precisely. He was quite given to talking, the Romulan. He was rather proud of his achievements, particularly the more debased ones. I think he was, in his way, as interested in me as I was in him. I believe that he desired to see whether he could ’shock’ me somehow. He proceeded to tell me the exact circumstances in which he had previously seen such a pin. The Vulcan woman who had worn one, and how he had knocked it out of her hair when he had . . . taken her forcibly. He went into intimate detail of the event. To shock me, as I said. And he did, but not in the way he had thought. For he simply believed that the recitation of the events of his brutality—his painting a vivid picture of how he had abused a Vulcan woman—would be disconcerting to me. He would have failed,
for my training was too thorough. But he spoke of the world upon which he had crashed, spoke of when it happened, and there was the connection with the pin . . .” Soleta took a deep, shaky breath. “He had no idea. No idea to whom he was speaking. He thought it was simply an identical pin. A mere coincidence. And that’s all it should have been, truly. I mean, the truth . . . the truth was too insane to contemplate, wasn’t it. Father, all unknowing, telling his daughter the details of the rape that had led to her conception? It was . . .”

  Her shoulders started to tremble, and her discipline began to crack. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Selar went to her then, tried to put a hand out, but Soleta shoved it away. Realizing the violence inherent in her move, she quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand as she said urgently, “I’m sorry, I—”

  But Selar waved dismissively. “No apology necessary. Considering the circumstances . . .”

  “After my encounter with my . . . with the Romulan . . . I informed Starfleet that there was an emergency of a personal nature which required my immediate attention. I had to speak to my parents in person. This was not something that could be dealt with over subspace. I returned home, returned to Vulcan, which was where my parents had relocated to in the interim. I confronted them and they . . . admitted to the true nature of my parentage. They even pointed out that they had never lied to me . . . and they had not, you know. What child, living in a normal environment, thinks to ask her father whether he is truly her father? No lie was required, for the question had never been posed. They told me that it should make no difference. That it did not diminish me, or make me less of a person than I was.” Slowly she shook her head. “No difference,” she repeated in clear disbelief, and then she said it again, her voice barely above a whisper, “No difference.”

  Selar waited. When Soleta said nothing after a time, Selar asked gently, “Did you return to Star-fleet?”

  “Not immediately. I could not. I felt . . . unworthy. Despite my parents’ urging, I felt I was less than the woman I was. It affected the way I conducted myself, deported myself. The way I dressed, the way I spoke . . . even to this day. Habits that I’d learned, training I had had . . . it all seemed a sham to me, somehow. Things learned by another person who was not me, but had only pretended to be me. I extended my leave of absence, and I roamed. Roamed for so long that eventually Starfleet got word to me that if I did not return, I would simply be dropped from the service. They put me in a position where I was forced to decide what to do with my life.”